


Détente

by bluebells



Series: Ceasefire [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Akande actually does have things to discuss but OW has too much baggage and he won't get the chance, Failed negotiations, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Protect your healers, Sleep dart is OP, thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 20:39:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11585763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: The fact nobody has opened fire yet is a miracle to both sides.It makes Lucio feel optimistic.





	Détente

**Author's Note:**

> A day will come when I can fulfill a prompt in less than 1k words, but it is not this day. Totally pumped that my first contribution to this fandom I love is for a pairing I've fallen in obsession with. Gotta contribute to the pool, yo. Inspired in part by the recent Masquerade comic (amazing, beautiful wow, so much Italian velvet), [this post](https://yoitsmars.tumblr.com/post/163225202005/a-lil-comic-about-doomfist-being-caught-a-second), in response to the request of Akande admiring Lucio across the battlefield. Because what's not to like?

“Anyone really believe this notion of a parley?” McCree mutters around his cigar, scanning the street lines of Numbani, paying special attention to the balconies of the high rises. 

In the heart of Unity Plaza, the hulking figures of Winston and the prodigal Doomfist stalk tense circles around each other under the blistering late morning sun. Reaper and Soldier 76 stand at the centre of the four-man discussion, voices rising every minute. The rest of Talon’s back-up are well-hidden, but the fact nobody has opened fire yet is a miracle to both sides.

It makes Lúcio feel optimistic.

McCree’s hand lingers on the grip of his holster and every line of him is taut, ready for the fight to break. Lúcio claps a hand on the cowboy’s shoulder and squeezes. 

“I know you’re waiting for it, but when the sun hits that spot in the sky, don’t – don’t get too excited. McCree, my man, you gotta believe.”

“I believe one of the world’s best snipers is probably lining us up right now. You heard of the Widowmaker?”

Ignorance can sometimes be a blessing. Lúcio counts himself lucky that he isn’t deep enough into this world to know all its heroes and villains. 

The Widowmaker? Really?

Lúcio grins up at him, propping his hands on his hips. “Then it’s a lucky thing I’m not married!”

McCree blinks at him. He huffs a laugh under his breath, shaking his head. “Might not want to advertise that too loud, partner.” He adjust his hat, a habit Lúcio has noticed when the man wants to deflect attention. “The Fist himself has been eyeing you up since we got here.”

What?

Lúcio laughs before he can help himself, and a sharp shushing noise admonishes them over the comms.

“The adults are talking.” 

Ana is the only one of their support team privy to the discussion going down in the plaza. Lúcio has sympathy for her effort to divide her attention between the two channels while watching their backs from her concealed position.

From their shade beneath the bridge, Lúcio glances to the man who called them all together. 

Doomfist is a monolith of stature and legend. His infamy precedes him. He is the only one among them who can’t be dwarfed by Overwatch’s resident scientist, but for one so large, his movements are careful and measured. 

From the moment they arrived, not in a hail of lightning or seismic disturbance, but slipping from the shadows of Numbani’s skyscrapers… Lúcio understood this man is dangerous. He warrants all of Lena’s vehement caution.

“I’d watch myself if I were you,” McCree says, and Lúcio follows his gaze.

It’s a daunting thing, when McCree is telling the truth.

But there he is: the successor to the Scourge of Numbani, stock-still and staring by Reaper’s shoulder. Doomfist does not blink when Lúcio meets his eyes, he does not glare or sneer, expression unreadable. Lúcio is too surprised to look away, breath caught in his chest, as he is searched, weighed and judged. 

A warm gust rises from the valley, whistling through the narrow streets, streaking hot and dry over his face. He feels light-headed from the heat, watching the wheels turn in Doomfist’s head. Lúcio is the first one to break their stalemate, studying the slow flex of that golden gauntlet, the glimmer of spiked knuckles when they catch the sun. 

Lúcio swallows to work moisture down his throat. He should have drank more water before the mission. He knows better.

It’s impossible not to look at the martial artist’s full array of strength on display, but Lúcio tries not to linger. When he finally looks back into Doomfist’s face, a slow smirk is curving the man’s mouth. Doomfist has arrived at some conclusion. The heat in his eyes, the intimidating weight of his gaze. It’s not good… but it’s not bad. There’s a promise there. Some wilful intention. Lúcio isn’t sure how to feel about the way his gut tightens at that look.

He is quietly grateful when Winston blocks their line of sight with an audible growl of warning.

Crossing his arms, the audio medic ignores the aura of smugness radiating from his teammate.

“I think he’s upset I have more posters in this city than him. You got some water?”

“Yeah, upset ain’t the word I’d use for that look,” McCree murmurs from the corner of his mouth, extinguishing his cigar as he reaches behind Lúcio’s back for the bottle strapped there.

“And I don’t think Talon recruit healers. Aren’t they all fight or die?”

McCree makes a funny tutting noise, flipping the bottle in his hand with a backward glance to check their flank. “Strangely, I don’t think that’s it eith – holy!”

Lúcio and McCree both stumble back with a cry of shock at the sudden reposition of Doomfist, less than an arm’s length away. How did he move so quickly? 

Doomfist raises his chin, that smirk growing with pride. If he was tall at a distance, he absolutely dwarfs them both up close. Something in Lúcio’s neck twinges, craning his head back so far to meet his eyes. Doomfist is not at all bothered by McCree’s show of trying to shove Lúcio behind him for cover, attention narrowing on the DJ.

“You’re impressed. That’s natural,” Doomfist says by way of greeting, voice smooth as water running over dark oak in a stream, and when he inclines his head in a bow, a hot thrill blooms in Lúcio’s chest.

Wow. 

And then, several things happen at once.

Winston flies at them, none too happy about the Talon agent’s new proximity to his team.

Reaper and Soldier 76 flinch at the sudden movement and their weapons fly into their hands.

“Nām.” A _snik_ of sound whizzes past Lúcio’s ear, Doomfist stiffens. He frowns down at the steel dart protruding from his exposed left pectoral muscle, and his knees give way. He almost collapses on them, sprawling prone to the street on his front, McCree shoving backward in contest to Lúcio’s instinct to leap forward and catch him. 

And that’s when Winston bowls them both over, unable to stop his own momentum. Lúcio’s visor clacks against an armoured collar and they barrel down the short hill in a shrieking tangle of limbs. Winston saves them from the worst, bundling them close in his arms and absorbing the shock when they tip off a short ledge, and thump to a stop at the foot of a tall statue.

Ugh. 

When Winston opens his arms, Lúcio groans and waits for his brain to stop feeling like it’s mid back-flip. Beside them, McCree wheezes out a thin breath, slumping on his back, hat lost in the fall.

“Sorry about that,” Winston pushes himself up on his hands, ducking his head, nudging his glasses on his nose. “I thought he was—“

“He wasn’t going to hurt us!” Lúcio argues before asking himself why.

Winston’s face pinches in impatient confusion. “Do you know who that is?”

“He looked sleepy,” Ana doesn’t miss a beat, sounding half-distracted in their comms. “Ah, someone please intercept the old men in the plaza. Please. Be quick.”

“Acknowledged. Thanks, Mama.” McCree strains to his feet, favouring his lower back with a wince. He starts back up the stairs at a slow jog, heading for the Plaza.

Winston and Lúcio exchange an uneasy look, following at pace. 

Doomfist is still face down, tranquilised, when they crest the stairs.

“Lúcio,” Winston sounds apologetic and tired all in the same breath. He leans heavily on his front knuckles, glowering at the prone man beneath the bridge. “I’m grateful you agreed to help us out. I know it was a detour from your tour in Numbani, but this is what we do.” Winston’s voice lowers with regret. “This man has hurt a lot of people. I’ve seen what he can do. I’m not taking that chance again.”

Lúcio considers the man at their feet, and the vantage of McCree inserting his own body between the two old soldiers, hands raised in appeal for calm. Lúcio thinks about the destruction he witnessed in Adawe International Airport. The stories of this man clearing his own way out of prison with nothing more than his fists.

“You’re right.” He nods, lightly smacking Winston’s arm in solidarity. “I’m sorry. But I also know the look when a man’s ready to kill me. It wasn’t there. So.” Lúcio kicks the heel of his skate and bites the inside of his cheek. “How angry is he gonna be when he wakes up?”

And that’s how Lúcio finds himself delegated to push a tall bottle of water at the man when he stirs a few minutes later. 

Sitting in the protective bubble of Winston’s shield, his shadow falls over Doomfist’s face to block him from the sun’s glare.

“Hi.” Lúcio grins at the sluggish blink and squint up at him. The man has nice eyes, so many shades of brown. Easy to appreciate from this vantage.

Lúcio uncaps the water bottle and offers it again, pleased when it’s accepted and Doomfist pushes himself up on his hands. Lúcio doesn’t even mind the other man clutching at his ankle to brace himself for a moment.

Doomfist doesn’t spare a glance or demand an explanation for why Lucio’s comrades are arguing over Reaper’s sleeping form, or why Winston is swinging at thin air and looking frustrated. Doomfist doesn’t ask about the quiet song humming from the speaker on Lúcio’s back, either.

“Lúcio,” the medic says, and offers his left hand.

It forces Doomfist to accept it with his own left hand, bare and free of the gauntlet. Thankfully, he does accept. His eyes never leave Lúcio’s face, there is less smugness in his gaze than before. Being sleep darted mid-boast can be a humbling experience.

“Akande.” The man shakes his hand without crushing it, and now Lúcio _is_ impressed. Control. Good. “I know who you are.”

“Yeah?” Lúcio’s smile quirks in a shrug. “I’ve heard of you, too.”

The comm in his ear clicks and Ana soothes him like the warm hand before the needle. “Lúcio, I’ve got my eye on you if he moves.”

He throws as much plea to _chill_ in the glance over his shoulder, to the window where he imagines Ana is watching. He’s got this. Maybe.

“Most of it is likely true.” Akande drinks a third of the bottle in one go, throat rolling in smooth lines before he lowers the drink to consider it with a thoughtful look. Moisture lingers bright and wet on his lips. 

Lúcio bites the inside of his lower lip and looks away, drawing his knees up to rest his elbows. 

“No way. That story about you, the springboks and the vault in Botswana?”

Akande’s frown of confusion is a tiny victory that makes Lúcio giddy on the inside. “Botswana?”

“Yeah, I knew it couldn’t be true. So.” Lúcio nods at the man, glancing over the length of his impressive form. He shades his eyes with a hand. “You gonna hurt my friends today, Akande?”

Akande appraises him in return, then grows still, gaze falling away as though he is listening to something intently. He looks over to Reaper stirring on the ground a few feet away, and grunts a soft sound of amusement. “Today you are spared, freedom fighter.” He shakes the water bottle when he climbs to his feet and heads to his colleague. “I’m taking this.”

“Hey, the first one is free!” Lúcio calls after him, not bothering to rise to his feet. 

Tucking the protesting terrorist against his side, black smoke swirls at their knees, and the two Talon agents depart with more fanfare than their arrival, shooting straight up into the sky and off around the corner of the skyscraper, into the valley, in an impressive backhand to physics.

What was in that gauntlet, anyway?

Lúcio smiles at his teammates when they turn to look at him as one, expressions slack with suspicion. Except Soldier 76. With his visor up, it’s hard to tell, but the way he holds himself is somewhere between tense and downright furious.

Lúcio grins at him in particular.

“Hey, that went pretty well, right?”

Sure, they didn’t get to discuss anything of merit, and Overwatch didn’t learn anything that Doomfist had insinuated was in their interest learning. The whole reason it was worth the man calling a ceasefire in the first place, beneath the radar of his own organisation. Yes, Lucio instead learned how much the Reaper guy triggers Soldier 76 into a fit that lasts for hours, but wow, now Lucio has seen a super soldier fold public property in half and lived to tell the tale. And nobody was hurt, everyone came home alive, so that is a win in Lucio’s book.

He, sadly, completely fails to notice the tracker in the ankle of his boot until much later.

**Author's Note:**

> Peace out, protect your healers, and [come burble with me, I cannot be cured.](http://bellsyblue.tumblr.com)


End file.
